


A Little Different

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Hawke, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrastianism, Baby Hawke, Black Emporium, Brief Leliana (Dragon Age), Brief Sten (Dragon Age), Brother Feels, Brother-Sister Relationships, Chantry Issues, Childhood, Cousland Backstory, Custom Hawke, Cute Kids, Demons, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fenris is Bad at Feelings, First Crush, Gen, Hawke Family Feels, Heart-to-Heart, Illusions, Implied Fenris/Hawke, In the Fade, Internal Conflict, Lothering, Non-Human Hawke, Not Canon Compliant, Ostagar, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parenthood, Platonic Kissing, Protective Siblings, Qunari, Qunari Children, Qunari Hawke - Freeform, Racism, School, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Soldiers, Sparring, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: This is to be a series of vignettes centering around Ursa Hawke - who, like so many other Hawkes existing across various world states, is a staunch and dependable Champion of Kirkwall, a caring friend, a loving daughter to Malcolm and Leandra, and a protective sibling to Carver and Bethany. But when it comes to her origins, she is just... a little different.





	1. Chapter 1

The knock comes in the middle of the night, brief but very loud, demandingly so. It makes Malcolm abruptly emerge from the comfortable drowsiness he has been slipping into, a stinging feeling burning at his half-lidded eyes as he lifts his heavy head and peers ahead. Leandra, who is still wide awake, stiffens at his side and gives him a slight nudge.  
  
'Go hide your staff and your books,' she breathes, pushing herself up. 'I'll check who it is'.  
  
'Are you mad?' he hisses in reply, now awake as well. 'I won't let you face a Templar in nothing but a nightgown!'  
  
'It may not even be a Templar,' she points out, already out of bed and on her feet. 'I'll go see - but you hide your things just in case!'.  
  
As, grousing under his breath, Malcolm trudges across the room to his dresser, Leandra walks towards the door, grabbing a frying pan on her way. She left it behind on the dinner table and promised herself to wash it in the morning , feeling too tired after her struggle with frying eggs and leeks (Malcolm wanted to help, but she has been adamant about learning to do the household chores by herself). The trusty old utensil is still covered in a charred layer of grease, and would probably do little damage to a fully armoured Templar - but getting a firm grip on its sooty handle somehow gives Leandra more courage and determination to face down whatever is lurking in the darkness outside.  
  
But when she crosses the threshold, the pan slips out of her hands and falls down with a thunderous clamour, while Leandra herself freezes on the spot, gaping down at her feet, till eventually, the stunned look on her face turns into a smile.  
  
There are no Templars waiting at the door - in fact, there is nothing out there at all, save for a large wicker basket, with a wriggling bundle of rags packed tightly into it. And among these rags, pulling at them with tiny dimpled fingers, lies a round-headed infant, with wispy white hair and enormous trusting eyes, which, when the little thing sees Leandra smile, gleam the brightest shade of lilac she has ever come across.  
  
Of course, with vivid irises like this, not to mention a pair of pointy ears, the baby cannot be human - but that doesn't stop Leandra from scooping it up into her arms, with one of the rags wrapped around it like a blanket, and carrying it gently away from the cold and the nasty, sticky wetness of a typical Fereldan night - inside the house, which, though quite small (especially compared to her family mansion in the Kirkwall Hightown) is still warm and homely. She has made sure of that, in spite of Malcolm's countless reminders that the dwelling might well be temporary.  
  
There is a flash of mage fire when she walks in, pushing at the door with her shoulder to make it slide shut: hearing her footsteps and the creak of the hinges, Malcolm must have instinctively lit up a protective spell and then quickly extinguished it, for fear of giving himself away. He draws a huge sigh of relief after seeing that there are no ominous steel-clad figures following Leandra; but the moment he sees the burden his wife is carrying, he knits his eyebrows.  
  
'Is that... A baby Qunari?' he asks incredulously, coming slowly up to Leandra and peering down at the tattered blanket.  
  
They have both heard and read plenty of stories about the fierce horned giants from the north, and about their stringent doctrine, which made the Chantry's teachings about heresy and magic seem like a Satinalia greeting card... But they never expected to see one all the way out here in Ferelden, especially not a small child.  
  
'It's a baby, period,' Leandra says sternly, stroking the pudgy little thing's back as it nestles against her chest, chewing at a loose strand of her hair with its toothless gums. 'A baby that needs warm, dry clothes, and food, too. You don't suppose you could soothe it and swaddle it... in something - while I ask around for some milk? We might be able to warm it up with your magic and...'  
  
'Wait, are we adopting it now?' Malcolm gapes at her.  
  
He is probably right to be so doubtful. Having been raised a pampered rich girl, her parents' favourite, Leandra can barely take care of herself, let alone a family; and she knows that Malcolm has never allowed himself to as much as hope to settle down some day, not with the threat of Templars constantly forcing him to pack up and take to the road every few months. But whoever made that loud knock and left this baby behind, be it its parents or someone else - it was their doorstep they chose. They can't just dump it off on someone else - their neighbours are mostly superstitious farmers, and seeing a Qunari, even a baby one, in their midst might make them reach for trusty old torches and pitchforks. No - any doubts must be cast aside. The baby has been entrusted to them (in a manner of speaking), and it is their responsibility.  
  
'I suppose we are,' Leandra says at length, looking down to pull her hair carefully out of the baby's mouth.  
  
When she is finished, she casts another strict, meaningful look at Malcolm.  
  
'And don't you dare say that it's a dangerous wild thing or some such nonsense!'  
  
'No... That would be a bit hypocritical of me,' Malcolm muses, leaning closer towards the baby - who immediately grabs at his beard, gurgling excitedly. 'After all, people say the same about apostates... Ouch! Let go of Daddy's glorious facial hair, you little rascal!'  
  
Leandra chuckles.  
  
'Well, that was fast!'  
  
'I can't teach the child to call me Serah Hawke, now can I?' her husband retorts jokingly.  
  
Somewhere along the way, the light of laughter fades from his eyes, and as Leandra passes the baby on to him, still intending to go out on a midnight quest for milk, his gaze grows pensive and wistful.  
  
'I gotta warn you, young Qunari,' he says quietly. 'You probably won't have much of a childhood with an apostate... parent. But at least it beats freezing to death out there, eh?'


	2. Chapter 2

A strong gust of wind tugs forcibly at the little slivers of paper that the little girl is cupping in her hands, and carries them off, towards the pink-splashed evening sky, like a flurry of snow - or better still, like countless soft flakes of ash. For the paper is not purely white - many of these little torn bits are smeared with black and maroon and pale grey, in places where the girl scribbled at the crinkly sheet with tinted charcoal, sticking out her tongue with the effort. She was so proud of her drawing when it was finished, so excited to show it to all and sundry - and yet, now she does not even get up to chase after what remains of her hard work, allowing the wind to scatter the torn paper far out of her reach, while she watches the tiny grey flakes through a mist of tears in her large, clear eyes, coloured an unusual shade of lilac.  
  
Though she herself didn't even know it was unusual until today. She didn't know it was not normal. She didn't know that her eyes weren't supposed to look like this; and her ears weren't supposed to be shaped like a couple of birch leaves; and that her skin wasn't supposed to be this shade of smoky, greyish brown; and that her hair wasn't supposed to be silvery white before she grew up and reached old age.   
  
Mama and Papa never told her that. There have been all these times when they stood by her side in front of the mirror, either to teach her how to braid her hair and brush her teeth, or to see if she was getting a rash from plopping down into a heap of poison ivy (which she usually didn't), or to check if she was starting to outgrow her dress again. And never, not once, did they cringe in disgust and point at her reflection and say 'This is wrong! You are wrong!'. Not even when, after returning home from a nice, long round of games with other children, she slumped thoughtfully at the table, poking her mashed potatoes thoughtfully, and wondered why everyone was so puny compared to her. The only answer she ever got out of Papa was,  
  
'Everyone is different, Ursa. And that's a good thing'.  
  
Except it isn't.  
  
She knows that now - the smart lady explained it to her; the one in the pretty robes, who teaches the Chant to children every Sunday. Ursa got very curious when her playmates told her about these lessons, and begged Papa, who so far had been the one teaching her things at home, to let her come too. He seemed unsure at first (and now she thinks she knows the reason); but after a lot of whimpering and tailing him and looking at him with enormous pleading lilac eyes, she finally managed to have her way; and on the next Sunday, Mama dressed her extra-carefully in this wonderful frilly pink dress that Papa had recently sewn for her, and made her hair into a couple of long, silky pigtails, and off she trotted to the Chantry, grinning broadly at the nice robed man who stood next to the notice board, as he nodded to her in greeting and said,  
  
'A learned child is a blessing upon her parents and unto the Maker'.  
  
She was so happy to be part of that lesson; to be a blessing upon her parents. She burst into the Chantry hall with her chest swelling with happy eagerness, and her bronzed cheeks warmed by a tingling flush. But both that swelling feeling and the tingle soon faded away.  
  
There were a lot of children gathered in the hall; far more than Ursa had ever seen at a time. A handful of them, she already knew, having shared quite a few games with them. By now, they were used to her being... different; they had gaped at her, of course, bewildered and slightly frightened, when she first came up to them in the village street, towering as much as two heads above them and shyly asked if she could play with them. But after a while, they had forgotten all about their fear, taking great enjoyment in having Ursa pick them up into the air and run around so they could pretend to be flying, or give them a leg-up when they wanted to climb somewhere that was out of reach of their tiny hands.  
  
Now, however, in the Chantry, these friendly little things were not the only ones that Ursa met. There were big children too, older than Ursa and her playmates, and some even taller than her - and they were not nearly as ready to forget about how different she was. They glared at her and whispered and laughed among themselves (a low, unkind sort of laugh that made Ursa's stomach clench). And when the children stood up to greet the Sister - that smart lady that was to make them 'learned' - Ursa distinctly heard one of the big boys hiss angrily into a smaller one's ear,  
  
'Is that her, Ian? The Hawke girl? The one you keep harping on about? I thought Father forbade you to go near that freak!'  
  
The gripping feeling inside Ursa's poor little tummy reached its most painful point. In a sudden flash, she came to understand why some of the little children who had once played with her now seemed to have vanished somewhere. Their parents didn't want them to be friends with Ursa - because she was a... freak?  
  
She tried hard not to think about it - and, Maker forbid, not to burst into tears. She was a good girl; her Papa always told her that - and Papa wouldn't lie… Would he? She knew her letters and her numbers; she happily said 'Please' and 'Thank you'; she was never late for dinner, and she could wash her little dish all by herself; she always made her bed and put her toys away into their box. She was a good girl - and she was going to sit through the lesson like a good girl, no matter what they were whispering in the seats behind her.  
  
Unfortunately, the Sister, like the children, did not seem to take much of a liking to Ursa. She squinted at her suspiciously when she was doing the roll call; and after that, she simply pretended that Ursa was not there, telling other children to answer her questions about the things the Chant taught - even though Ursa knew what to say almost all of the time, and often came close to leaping out of her seat, her hand raised so high into the air that her dress almost tore at the armpit. She had to spend the entire lesson fidgeting in her seat, frustrated at not being noticed... Until she did get noticed, after all - and not in a good way, either.  
  
While the Sister was giving a task to the older children (they had to write down a list of dangerous things that Andrastians needed to look out for, or something of the sort), the youngest had to draw a picture of Andraste. That part of the lesson almost cheered Ursa up; grabbing a bit of charcoal, she eagerly set to work, outlining the drawing that is now floating out there, somewhere in the clouds. She drew Andraste during her favourite moment in the stories about the prophet - when she leads a march against the slave masters of Tevinter. Ursa put a lot of effort into picturing every detail that she had imagined when Mama retold her the Chant: she made Andraste two heads taller than the dark squiggle behind her (which was supposed to be a crowd of freed slaves; Ursa even wrote 'Happy Not-Sleyves' over it), and gave her an enormous greatsword, long flowing white hair, and slightly pointed ears.   
  
She thought it a wonderful drawing, far more beautiful than anything she had ever scribbled before; and she was anxious to hand it in. But when the Sister accepted the charcoal-smeared paper sheet from the tentatively smiling white-haired girl, it took her only one quick glance to cast the drawing aside, curling her lips and wrinkling her nose as if she had just seen some sort of icky, slimy slug.  
  
'This won't do,' she said dryly. 'This won't do at all. Andraste didn't look like this'.  
  
Once again, something inside Ursa seemed to tear off and fall far, far down.  
  
'Oh...' she said, pulling absently at one of her pigtails. 'Oh... But what did she look like then?'  
  
'I don't know,' the Sister snapped. 'That is a question for scholars in Val-Royaeux, not for a simple village cleric. But I do know one thing: whatever Our Lady looked like, it was not like... this. Not like you'.  
  
'Why?' Ursa asked, in a small voice.  
  
'Because Our Lady appeared human,' the Sister responded harshly, moving on to collect the drawings from the other children.  
  
This left Ursa in a confused stupor. She knew that there were elves and dwarves living in the world together with humans; she had even seen quite a few of them, and tried her best to befriend them - but she herself had to be a human! Her Mama and Papa were both humans, after all - which meant that she was one as well! Right?  
  
She sat gaping for a while, with absolutely no idea what to make of the Sister's words - until one of the big boys woke her up from her daze, by pointing at her and letting out a loud guffaw,  
  
'Hey look! The freak thinks she's like us!'  
  
The hall echoed with a rumbling burst of laughter, which the Sister made no real effort to stop. Even the younger children, who used to accept Ursa as a perfectly normal playmate, now looked around and took to mimicking their older brothers and sisters, till their faces all seemed to merge together into a single jeering blur.  
  
Amid the haze that encircled Ursa, suffocating her like smoke, face stood out for a moment: that of a snooty-looking girl, with neatly combed back blonde hair; she was wearing a simpler version of a Chantry robe (which apparently made her feel very important), and had helped the Sister hand out the books and writing tools at the beginning of the class.  
  
'She will not think that for long,' she announced, sneering. 'I have seen that Hawke lady: she is getting bigger and bigger with child, and when she and her husband have a proper human baby, they will kick this beast out!'  
  
She might have said something else, too, but Ursa never found out. At this point, she rose shakily from her seat and stumbled out, clutching her incorrect drawing to her chest, her feet carrying her across the hall and outside, faster and faster, while her head was swimming groggily and her breathing was growing more and more strained with a mounting sob.  
  
And here she is now, sitting in the grass outside the Chantry building, with her dress now bearing mossy-green smudges and her face a blotchy mess. She has shredded her drawing into as many pieces as she could, hating it with as much fervent force as she loved it when the lines first appeared on paper. Mama and Papa have lied to her, after all: she is not different in a good way. She is different in a bad way; so bad that even Andraste would not want to look like her. The Sister said that; she has to be right, since she is smart enough to teach little children about the Chant. And... And that blonde girl has to be right, too: the Sister wouldn't have allowed her to wear that robe and carry her books if she was some stupid little think... like Ursa. So... once the little brother or sister that she has been so impatient to meet finally leaves Mama's tummy, will that mean that she will have to go away? Enter some deep dark forest all on her own, and sleep in a hollow log and eat bugs? All because she is... different?  
  
'Hey little bear, I've been looking for you!'  
  
Normally, the sound of Papa's voice would have made Ursa smile and dance gleefully on the spot, happy to see him. But now, she just huddles up tighter and tucks her nose into her chest, shutting her eyes to avoid looking at him.  
  
'So, class is over already? I'm really sorry, but looks like you won't get a chance to have another one...  Not in this Chantry, anyway. You see, there have been some... mean people, asking... mean questions about your old man... And I think that you, Mama and me will have to find another home. There's a farmer about to bring his pumpkins to market in another village; we can hitch a ride in his cart. It will be fun, I promise! We can play "I spy with my little Hawke eye"... Wait, what's wrong?'  
  
Ursa can hear the rustle of Papa's clothes as he crouches down next to her, and can feel the warmth of his arms when he pulls her into a hug; still, she refuses to open her eyes.  
  
'What's up, little bear?' Papa asks again, ruffling Ursa's hair.  
  
She finally unsticks her eyelids and turns to look at him, with a huge sniff.  
  
'Is that what I am?' she mutters hoarsely. 'A bear that can talk?'  
  
'What?! No! It's just a joke, like when Mama calls me Fuzzy because of my amazing beard! But you know that!'  
  
'I don't know anything any more,' Ursa says, tears beginning to stream down her face again. 'The Chantry Sister said I wasn't human... And then there was that girl, and she said that you will kick me out when you have a... real baby...'  
  
'Maker's silver nail clippers!' Papa exclaims in indignation. 'Another reason to move out of this hole! I wouldn't be surprised if it was that know-it-all Sister that nudged the Templars to sniff at me! And that girl... That girl should be happy her parents didn't kick _her_ out for that foul mouth of hers!'  
  
'You'll... You'll let me stay with you then?' Ursa wipes the tears and the snot off her face with the back of her hand, and looks searchingly into Papa's face. 'Please let me stay... Pretty please? I don't think I'll like eating bugs in the forest very much. And I won't come near your baby if you don't want to'.  
  
'Hey!' Papa gives her a soft, painless clap on the head. 'Don't be silly! That baby is your sibling! Of course you ought to come near it! Now let's go freshen you up and help Mama pack our things, eh? And along the way, I will explain to you what those meanies were on about... Or try to, at any rate. And even if I turn out not to be too good at explaining, there's one thing you should always know: I am your Papa, and Leandra is your Mama, and you are our little girl. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not saying that the snooty blonde initiate is a young Petrice... But she could be a young Petrice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little vignette, occurring after yet another time skip, deals mostly with Bethany and her exploration of the Fade. But I think it sheds enough light on Ursa's relationship with her siblings. Perhaps I will later write in another story, where the twins have just been born.

Even though she is no longer a confused, mewling little toddler who can't make head or tail of her own dreams, Papa still asks Bethany to wait for him once she falls asleep and finds herself in the Fade. It is a dangerous place, he says - un... unperdicabble. Not fit for a young girl to explore all by herself; even a smart, brave girl like Bethany, who has already come so far in her studies of magic.  
  
And when he tells her that, she usually listens and nods and does as he says, because she tries very hard to be a good, polite child, just like her big sister Ursa. But it does little to help her be a good child that her bedtime is so much earlier than Papa's, or that she plummets into the dream world almost the second her head hits the pillow. Sometimes - especially on those evenings when Papa and Mama wrap a scarf around their door handle and strictly forbid the children to come in - the waiting gets tediously long. Usually, Bethany manages to stay put, sitting on some big rock and dangling her legs and gaping at the weird things that float past her through the swirling green sky. But there are times when her curiosity proves almost too much to resist, and she itches all over with a burning wish to leap off her stone perch and see for herself what lies in the depths of that eerie mist.  
  
And tonight, at long last, she gives in. It'll only take a moment, she tells herself as she slides down the boulder and trots up a winding paved path, suspended in mid-air among enormous clumps of clouds that look like trees. She'll just take a quick look ahead, and then go back and wait for Papa. He won't even notice that she's been away. And if she does meet one of those creepy things that go bump in the Fade, she is sure she'll handle herself. She is not a baby any longer; she is almost twelve years old (give or take seven months or so). She knows what she is doing.  
  
'Of course you do,' a ringing, metallic sort of voice speaks from a distance, out of the green haze.   
  
Bethany digs her heels deep into the ground and gulps, frantically snapping her fingers to try and cast some spell, any spell, to defend herself - just like Papa taught her. But the voice calls to her again, coming closer this time, while its owner gradually grows visible - a tall, human-like blur at first, with what looks like a couple of horns on its head.  
  
'Clever, clever little girl,' the voice says, and even though it's probably a whole load of stupid nonsense, Bethany can almost swear that she feels it float up to her and then coil against her skin, like some sort of... unseen... flying... snake?  
  
'You do know, what you are doing. But you needn't get so up in arms - it is not me that you should be afraid of'.  
  
Bethany frowns. This kind of talk has come up in Papa's lessons often enough for her not to trust the... snakey voice.  
  
'You are a demon, aren't you?' she says, as confidently as she can, folding her arms on her chest. 'I am not scared of you!'  
  
'Demon...' the voice sighs, echoing still closer. 'Such a harsh word to describe a friendly spirit that has come to warn a little girl against the real demon that lives under the same roof with her'.  
  
With these words still hanging in the air, the blur finally becomes outlined more sharply. Bethany can see now that she is standing next to a giantess of a woman, bigger than any grown-up she has ever seen, with pointy ears, a thick braid of snowy-white hair, and burning purple eyes. She doesn't have horns any longer, but even so, she manages to look pretty imposing, towering over Bethany like a mighty bronze statue, of the kind the has seen in picture books about the lands of Thedas. But even as the woman casts a long, dark shadow over her, Bethany takes a deep breath and orders herself not to be afraid. She recognizes the huge grown-up's features - and they belong to someone that she loves very, very much.  
  
'Are you trying to show me what Ursa will look like when she's older?' she asks. 'My big sister?'  
  
'She is not your sister, little girl,' the woman shakes her head, her voice continuing to slither and coil. 'Didn't she tell you that herself, just a few days ago?'  
  
Bethany huffs indignantly. Really! That demon, spirit or whatever - it got it all wrong! This is not what Ursa said - this is not what happened!  
  
What happened was that Ursa came home the other day carrying Carver up by the collar, like a cat carries a kitten. Bethany's pouting, wriggling twin made quite a spectacle, with a chunk of bleeding flesh dangling off his lower lip, where it had been split in a fight, and a swollen purplish bulge on his forehead.  
  
'He's been at it again,' Ursa explained, sitting Carver down into a chair, while Papa crouched in front of him, ice magic shimmering between his fingers, and soothed the bump. 'Had to take apart a whole ball of kicking boys to get to him. He was all the way down on the ground - and still fighting them off. The silly urchins even continued to grab at him when I lifted him up. But then I made this teeny, weeny "Grr" noise - and poof! They were gone'.  
  
'Hah - that's my little bear!' Papa chuckled. 'And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?'  
  
'They were calling her names,' Carver said grimly, his voice coming out all clogged up through his bloodied nose. 'They said that their parents said that we were keeping Ursa around like a pet... A big, wild, dangerous pet'.  
  
Papa and Ursa exchanged long, silent looks, and nodded to one another; then, Ursa cleared her throat and said,  
  
'I think I'm old enough to try and tell the kids myself...'  
  
And she did tell them - she told them how Mama and Papa found her on their doorstep one night, and took her in; and she told them what a Qunari was. The spirit (or demon) must have read that in Bethany's memories - she knows that they are prone to doing this sort of thing. But there is one thing that the spirit has failed to see - the most important thing of all.  
  
'Yes, she is,' Bethany objects stubbornly, clenching her little fists. 'She is my sister. It doesn't matter where she came from'.  
  
'Oh but it does,' the tall woman hisses silkily, leaning down and tilting Bethany's head up with her clawed hand so that she can look up at her, into the heart of the purple flame that dances inside her eyes.  
  
The girl shudders at her touch, as if she has just stepped into icy cold water. She has never shuddered at the touch of the real Ursa - not even once, for as long as she can remember. She has never wanted to recoil or to burst into tears when her big sister rocked her to sleep, or combed and braided her hair, or tickled her when she refused to crawl out of bed on a particularly drowsy winter morning, or crept up behind her and clapped her hands over her eyes to steer her towards a pile of birthday presents.   
  
In the meanwhile, the woman continues taunting her.  
  
'She is a Qunari, that so-called sister of yours; and sooner or later, her blood will show. Do you know what her people do with mages?'  
  
Bethany moves her head slowly from side to side; the woman leers at her - in a cruel, unsettling way that exposes the sharp tips of her teeth - and then draws away. When she straightens up again, a second, shorter figure appears by her side: a male human with what Bethany knows as 'a most glorious beard'.  
  
'Papa!' she exclaims, letting out an involuntary sigh of relief - but then, she checks herself and hastens to put on a brave face.  
  
'Don't worry!' she chirps. 'I was just about to... d-destroy this demon!'  
  
But Papa does not give an answer - because he is not able to. His mouth has been sewn shut with coarse black threads, and he is bending in two under the weight of a massive collar, with chains attached to it; similar chains trail down from the shackles that cut deep into his wrists, drawing more blood than Bethany has ever seen, even after all the scrapes her brother has been in - and all of them are grasped tightly in the woman's fist, so that she can tug at them forcibly whenever she wills, as though Papa was a dog that she held on a leash.   
  
'No!' Bethany screams hoarsely, stumbling forward with her arms outstretched - only to see the cruel creature of the Fade pull her Papa away from her. 'Let him go!'  
  
'This is what Ursa will do to your father when she grows old enough to realize what she really is,' the woman intones coldly, disregarding Bethany's frightened whimpers and the mad flailing of her arms. 'The Qunari torture their mages in a way that the human Chantry and its Templars have not even dreamed of. They hate people like your father and you, little girl - and Ursa will hate you too'.  
  
'Ursa doesn't hate anyone,' Bethany says thickly, swallowing tears. 'Not even people who hate her'.  
  
'And that is darn right! Do you really think you're the first to throw mud at my daughter? You really should have checked your notes with several dozen superstitious villagers... And also - no-one has ever managed to shut the mouth of Malcolm Hawke!'  
  
The bound prisoner lifts his head, staring blankly at his twin, who has just appeared in front of him: free of the chains and the threads, and with a fire ball blazing in each of his hands.  
  
'Stand back, Bethany! I don't want you to get hurt!'  
  
With that, he hurls one of his orbs of flame at his chained likeness, burning a large hole through the collar. As it begins to spread, it consumes the rest of the bound mage, making him crinkle and fold up like a sheet of paper held up to a candle. In a moment, he disappears in a puff of smoke; by then, the real, free Malcolm Hawke has already turned to deal with the bronze-skinned, purple-eyed woman. When the blazing orb hits her, she whirls up into the air with a deafening shriek, casting off the image of a grown-up Ursa and revealing her true self: a half-naked demoness with a long, thrashing tail and curving horns. Bethany cowers and screws up her eyes, too terrified to watch the fight; but she can still hear the creature snarl and gnash its teeth, while Papa seems to bombard it with more explosive magic. Eventually, the demon makes a half-moaning, half-belching noise, and all falls silent.  
  
'That's it,' Malcolm announces, pulling his younger daughter up to her feet as she dares to open her eyes. 'I am not letting you into the Fade alone for the next few years! Fry me on a spit and call me the new Andraste - I was way too careless! Canoodling with my wifey, thinking all was under control...'  
  
Bethany does not let him finish, pressing herself against the lower half of his body in a tight hug.  
  
'I am glad you are not in chains,' she says.  
  
Malcolm grins at her.  
  
'And I never will be! I am way too fast for those pesky Templars!'  
  
Bethany crinkles her forehead and asks quietly, the demon's words ringing through her head again.  
  
'And what about Ursa?'  
  
'Oh, I think you know her better than that,' her Papa reassures her. 'If you ask me, this wasn't even as much about her as about having magic. You see, as young mages start growing up, they sometimes bump into demons that go all "Boohoo, everybody hates you, I am your only friend, let me possess you please!" But that won't work on you because...'  
  
'Because I actually have friends,' Bethany finishes, remembering her lessons. 'Real friends. My family. You, and Mama, and Carver... and Ursa'.  
  
***  
  
Giggling impishly to himself, little Carver Hawke tiptoes across the nursery, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. But as he sneaks up to the bunk bed where his sisters sleep, a strong bare arm reaches down from the top, and dark-skinned fingers close round his nightshirt's collar (again).  
  
'And what do you think you're up to in the middle of the night?' Ursa Hawke asks her brother in a ferocious whisper, leaning down from her bunk.   
  
'I...' Carver mumbles. 'I thought it'd be funny to tie Beth's hair to her bed'.  
  
'Well, it won't be funny!' Ursa breathes out. 'She has enough to deal with right now!'  
  
'Hey, how come you don't let me prank her?' Carver asks, pouting. 'You usually help me prank people!'  
  
But then, he casts his eyes down at the lower bunk, where his twin sleeps, and shapes his mouth into a small oval, drawing out a faint 'Oh!' of understanding.  
  
Bethany's eyelids are fluttering rapidly over her closed eyes, and the fingers of her little hands, which are resting on the crumpled pillow on either side of her face, are twitching - as are her lips.  
  
'She's in the Fade,' Ursa explains huskily. 'Must have stumbled on something nasty. I heard her moaning and went to fetch Papa, while you were what... pretending to be asleep?'.  
  
'Oooh... I thought you had to pee!' Carver confesses frankly.  
  
Ursa rolls her eyes.  
  
'Well, I didn't! I headed to the old folks' room and just went in, scarf or no scarf... And Papa stopped, uh, doing stuff, and started meditating. He has to be with Beth right now. Least, I hope so, cause she isn't moaning any longer'.  
  
'I... I won't bother her then,' Carver whispers, giving his twin's blanket a gentle pat.  
  
'Hey,' Ursa suggests, after a brief pause, 'If you can't sleep, we could go outside and watch the stars. Remember that constellation you said looked like a bearded guy in profile? You never finished telling me the story you made up for him!'.  
  
Carver's face lights up.  
  
'Yes, please!' he mouths excitedly. 'Let's go!'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ursa is going to ultimately end up with Fenris, but she definitely had a bit of a crush on Leliana.

Ursa cannot deny being curious about that captured giant - the only living being that at least remotely resembles what she sees in the mirror every morning; the only other living being to have the same dull-bronze skin and white hair, the same heavy, angular facial features, pointed ears, and vivid lilac eyes. She has even thought about going to the village outskirts, where they keep him locked up in a cage (no doubt hoping that the ever-rising whispers prove true and the darkspawn do pop up from underground and eat him); she has actually hovered on the bridge over the creek, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet and mulling over what she might say to him - what questions she might ask about where he came from, and what sort of life he had had among people who all looked like him. But in reality, she never brought herself to approach the prisoner too close: as she started slowly making her way towards the cage, a wave of his rhythmic chanting washed over her, knocking her in the chest - like that one time when the silly little twins decided to swim in the lake during a rainstorm, and she had to wade in, dark-grey waves lapping all around her, and fish them out before they drowned. Only this time, the wave's push was much stronger, and when it resonated through her chest, Ursa had to turn around, gasping and staggering, and run off, a tiny dark thing seeming to claw at the pit of her stomach. Because she found the flow of the Qunari's strange language to be very beautiful - and she still hates herself for it.  
  
It is wrong, she tells herself fiercely, pushing through the Chantry doors, with the shawl she grabbed from home tightly wrapped around her head and shoulders. You'd think that she'd avoid this place of Andrastian worship, since it is the Chantry sisters, back in the village where her family used to live before Lothering, who first showed her that she is not the human she thought herself to be as a child. And yet, even though the clerics might think her unwelcome, especially after what happened at that farm, the Chantry is the first place that her instinct brings her to. For she still believes in the Maker, and in Andraste, and the serene quiet of the Prophetess' holy home invites her to rest and sort through her racing, messy thoughts. Hopefully, the shawl will make her look unremarkable enough to buy her some time for solitary contemplation. And Maker, is there much to be contemplated!  
  
Like her fascination with the lilac-eyed stranger and with that grave prayer.. song... thing of his. She tells herself again, forehead furrowed: it is wrong. So very wrong. The villagers did not put him in that cage just to give the darkspawn a snack (if there are any darkspawn coming in the first place). He is a murderer. A murderer of the most vile, despicable sort. Like a wild beast, with powerful teeth and claws to finish off the prey. Maker's breath - she even knew some of the people he tore apart; she baked cookies for the younger members of that poor farmer's family, when they came over for Beth's birthday! And then, in a flash, that... that monster reduced them to slivers of mangled, bloodied flesh. They took him in; they trusted him - and he killed them without second thought.  
  
_They took him in; they trusted him - and he killed them without second thought._ Might the same be true of her? Mama and Papa did accept her into their family, after all - disregarding how different she is, and reassuring her every single time someone pointed out that she is nothing but a savage creature, ready to lunge at their throats the moment they let their guard down. Her adoptive parents have always tried so hard to make her see how wrong those people were... But what if they actually weren't? What if she shares more things in common with that caged Qunari than just her hair and eye colour? What if she has the same uncontrollable demonic force brewing inside her, until one day, she finally snaps, just the way he did - inexplicably, without warning, simply because she has this hot blood flowing through her veins, commanding her to destroy and to kill? She has never had this bloodthirsty urge before - but maybe this just means that it keeps lying dormant... Maybe that day is yet to come - the day when she will stand colossally tall in the kitchen doorway, her hands dripping not with cookie dough but with the blood of her mother and siblings?  
  
'Hello? Are you all right?'  
  
As a soft female voice, like a silken thread, pulls Ursa back from the whirlpool of her thoughts, she finds out, with a dull sort of surprise, that she has stumbled her way to one of the altars and is now kneeling before it, with her eyes tearing up in the hazy candlelight and her white hair blocking her view, the loose tangled strands looking like cage bars of her very own. Brushing her hair back, Ursa sees a young, red-haired human woman kneeling beside her. So much for the shawl.  
  
The human, wearing a Chantry robe, is reaching forward with one hand, as if she wants to give Ursa a one-armed hug, but does not quite dare to... Perhaps she is intimidated by Ursa's sheer size and inhuman appearance - perhaps she is expecting a bestial snarl and a pounce with bared claws.  
  
Before Ursa can continue wallowing in her bitterness, however, the woman speaks again.  
  
'It is Ursa, isn't? Ursa Hawke?'  
  
She has a funny way of pronouncing her words, as though she has just taken a little sip of water and is still holding it in her mouth. It is not grating, though - just not something Ursa is used to hearing. As her mind, still pretty rattled after hearing the Qunari's chant, slowly gets back on track, Ursa recollects the stories Beth kept telling her about her newest friend, a lay Sister from Orlais, 'the one with the pretty smile'.  
  
'Yeah,' Ursa responds abruptly to the question, and adds, 'My... My sister told me about you'.  
  
The Orlesian beams - and Ursa has to note to herself that Beth was right: she does have a very pretty smile. Her lips are soft and smooth, like rose petals, and her bluish-grey eyes have this bright spark in them, which makes Ursa inadvertently mirror her expression and part her own lips.  
  
'Bethany came here recently,' the Orlesian says. 'She is worried about you'.  
  
'Oh?' Ursa frowns incredulously.  
  
She has not properly spoken to her little sister ever since news arrived of the tragedy at the farm; then, she held her close, and let her sob in her chest, passing her hand over her marking shoulders in soothing strokes, and occasionally planting a kiss on the top of her head. But even though they could well have sat like this for hours, eventually Beth had to get up and walk away - and since then, Ursa has been avoiding her, too afraid that... that her little Beth might hate her, the way she surely must hate the... other monster for killing her friends. Thus, the announcement that Beth is worried about her leaves Ursa more than a little flustered, and also profoundly relieved.  
  
'She fears that the villagers might turn on you, since you... have some common appearance traits with the Qunari in the cage,' the Orlesian explains cautiously. 'And sadly, I think that, even in her youth, she already sees the cruelty of this world, where so many people are branded villains for the most foolish of reasons'.  
  
She sighs.  
  
'And also, Bethany wanted to learn how you were taking it, and wishes you'd talk to her. That's why I am telling you this - otherwise I would never have interrupted your prayer'.  
  
'Oh, I wasn't praying,' Ursa smirks wryly. 'More like... brooding. Wondering if one day, I'd just...'  
  
'No,' the Orlesian cuts her short, her voice suddenly so firm that Ursa even starts a little. 'Do not even think it. We do not know that Qunari's tale - why he acted the way he did; but I am certain there is some reason other than "his hair is white and his eyes are purple". The Maker's world is not that simple, or that foolish'.  
  
'So... So you don't think I am a dangerous savage?' Ursa says - and as she speaks, the dim Chantry hall around her seems to light up for some reason.  
  
'So many clerics say that about anyone who is not human,' the Orlesian says, curling her pretty lips in a little grimace. 'But I believe that we should judge people on what lies in their hearts, not on what they look like. And a dear, sweet girl like Bethany would not love someone whose heart was full of darkness'.  
  
Ursa flushes and lowers her head - which allows the young Sister to lean in impulsively and kiss her gently on the cheek. The petal-like caress of her lips makes Ursa's heart soar, the clawing dark thing in her stomach completely gone, banished by the unseen light that spreads inside her, reflecting the visible golden glow of the Chantry candles.  
  
'You are a beautiful creation of the Maker, Ursa Hawke,' the Orlesian says, as the two of them get to their feet, now both blushing. 'And as long as you remember that, and let your faith strengthen your heart, the people who really matter will see the truth about you. Now go and fins your sister - she will tell you the same things I did'.  
  
'You... You don't talk like most Chantry folk I've met,' Ursa says, her voice coming out slightly hoarse after the (rather pleasant) shock of the kiss.  
  
'What can I say?' the Orlesian chuckles. 'I am... a little different'.


	5. Chapter 5

As the unnerving tales of the rising darkspawn horde keep growing in number (and in grizzly detail), more and more new recruits arrive at Ostagar: simple countryside younglings with a lost look in their widened eyes, which are used to the sight of ploughed fields, not pitched up tents and massive, smoking armour forges; and cynical, grizzled men and women who say sagely, as they warm their hands at the side of a campfire, that there is no Blight coming, that the tainted creatures of the caves were fought back for good ages ago, and that the young king just wants to play hero because he envies his father's fame as the man who freed Ferelden - but who still have to obey the orders of their arls, who were called to march to war by their ruler.  
  
A small handful of freshly conscripted soldiers hails from the little village of Lothering, which lies among rippling golden wheat fields in the shadow of the old Imperial Highway. Among them, is a determined-looking lad, no older than eighteen years of age, with dark hair and bright blue eyes; he is accompanied by a woman that he refers to as his sister. The latter is marked by her startling height, towering at least a head over the biggest soldiers at the campsite. A recruit from Honnleath, thinking back to the bizarre stone colossus that stands in the main (and only) square of his village and serves as a sturdy perch for pigeons, has even nicknamed her 'Golem'. The woman does not seem to mind, just silently shrugging her shoulders whenever the ingenious fellow from Honnleath calls out to her (mostly from afar, because it is best not to put yourself at risk when you decide to tease someone this size).  
  
In fact, both of the newcomers do not speak to other soldiers all too much or too often: the boy does not seem like much of a talker by nature, and Golem is prevented from going beyond muffled grunts by the full-faced leather helmet that she wears at all times. Large, lumpy, and clumsily stitched together (obviously by a pair of hands that is not used to crafting armour), it obscures her features almost completely, with just bits of her strongly outlined jaw peeking in between the straps. It is a little silly - but so is most of the home-stitched gear that the recruits stuffed themselves in when they heard that they were about to march to war. So while the awkward leather construct does earn Golem a few snickers now and then (once again, from a distance), the soldiers at Ostagar do not really care for her helmet... Until, by sheer accident, a group of them finds out just what exactly it conceals.  
  
It happens during sparring practice, overseen by a ruddy-faced, ever-hoarse junior officer named Threnn. Golem handles swordplay quite well - but, as her frustrated sparring partners grouse when she knocks them back, one after the other, the ease with which she does it must come from the sheer length of her arms, which allows her to swing the armoury's heaviest practice greatsword across the training yard as if it were a flimsy tree branch. The little brother does not appear to be particularly pleased with her, either: every time Golem makes one of her tremendous swipes and sends her opponent on a prolonged loop through the air (which tends to end with a comical plop on his or her hind quarters), the blue-eyed boy rushes in and, snatching the greatsword from her, tries to repeat her feats of strength... Only to clumsily drop his oversized weapon onto the ground or, at best, lower it after a few small swings, wincing with the muscle strain. This puts him into a sulking mood, and he goes off to pout, massaging his forearms and ignoring each of his sister's attempts to silently offer him a wieldier greatsword from the armour rack.  
  
Eventually, seeming to take pity on the brooding lad and wanting to make him feel better, Golem starts making weaker, smaller swings - and nonetheless, somehow manages to knock her sparring partners off-balance (without any more fantastical flights, but still). The little brother does not get any closer to being cheered up - and Threnn, noticing that the leather-helmeted recruit has begun slacking off, lets out such a yell that she makes herself seem quite intimidating, even though utterly dwarfed by Golem.  
  
'No slacking off!' she barks threateningly. 'You won't have breaks in the battlefield: if there really is a Blight, the darkspawn will just keep coming till you either drop dead or shake them all off like bloody leeches! If you think you aren't getting a challenge - I'll give you a challenge! Come on!'  
  
She gestures demandingly at the other recruits, who have gathered around to watch (some of them still nursing sores after being dealt with by Golem).  
  
'Come on! Three on one! No - make it five on one! Go, go, go!'  
  
Five of the recruits from the front row of onlookers shuffle forward tentatively, readjusting their grip on their swords. Golem, who was somewhat petrified by Threnn's tirade, squares her shoulders and prepares to face them. But when they charge forward, rounding up their eyes till they are about to pop from their sockets (for more dramatic effect), it becomes apparent that even a big, sturdy woman like Golem cannot stand long against five opponents. She simply does not have enough battle training for that.  
  
Even though a few of her hallmark broad sword swooshes prove useful for fighting off two of the advancing recruits, one of the remaining three seizes the moment while she is distracted and prods at her from behind. If his sword were properly sharpened for real battle, it would have run Golem through; as such, it merely startles her - but that, too, is enough for her assailants to catch her off-guard. As she staggers on the spot, reaching behind instinctively to rub the spot where she got poked with the sword, the three soldiers pounce on top of her and topple her down onto the hardened layer of muddy footprints that covers the ground.  
  
Huffing loudly, Golem aims a kick in their midst, and manages to hit a male recruit (the same one who gave her that disorienting prod) in the strategic spot. He crawls back, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish out of water; however, the two women that accosted Golem with him are undeterred. For a while, the three female recruits roll around in the dust, their limbs merging together in a bizarre blur - until finally, there came a shrill triumphant cry, let out by the younger of Golem's opponents: a broad-faced, freckled girl from a farmstead somewhere near Denerim, famed (among those who cared about such things) for catching sight of Teyrn Loghain bathing... and for managing to make Threnn blush with loud and very detailed reports of the encounter. It is highly possible that Threnn has pitted the girl against Golem out of spite; but the little freckled thing has managed to prove her worth by pinning the bigger woman to the ground and yanking off her helmet (with some of its lopsided leather straps getting mercilessly ripped out in the process).  
  
With a smug grin (which is missing a few teeth but is still dazzlingly pearly), the freckled soldier lifts the helmet over her head - and then looks down and freezes; her arms are still raised up high in a victorious gesture, but her face gradually acquires a completely new expression, that of bewilderment and even fear. The other recruits, alarmed by the dead silence that has followed the cry of triumph, shuffle closer to the defeated Golem - and gape at her as well.  
  
With her face no longer hidden, it becomes painfully obvious that Golem is as far from being a human as any gawker around her is from being a dwarf. Her skin is deeply tanned, a bit like that of the Chasind Wilders - except that it was an unnatural greyish undertone to it; her cheekbones are broad and sharp, as is her chin, giving her face a demonic look, which makes a few soldiers in the crowd to start praying in a breathless whisper. Her ears, while smaller than an elf's, are definitely pointy, adding up to the otherworldly impression she makes - but the most unnerving thing about her are her eyes, which are neither blue nor brown nor grey nor any other of the normal colours... Instead, they burn a vivid purple - widened in what looks like fear... But what can a monstrous thing like this possibly be afraid of?  
  
Threnn is the first to snap out of the shocked daze.  
  
'All right,' she commands, a little shakily, 'Hold that... creature back, while I report to Teyrn Loghain that we have an abomi...'  
  
She does not get to finish. During the very first moments of that horror-struck silence, the blue-eyed forgot all about his sulking and shifted closer to her, his steps slow and threateningly heavy and his head bowed down like that of a charging ram. And now he has grabbed Threnn from behind, pressing all his weight against her and twisting her arms behind her back.  
  
'She is not an abomination!' he snarls into the officer's ear, his open young face now twisted by an almost frightening angry scowl. 'She is my sister, and I won't let you do anything to her!'  
  
'Hush Carver, you are supposed to say that about a different sister,' Golem chuckles faintly (as much as she can, what with the freckled recruit's knee shoving against her chest). Perhaps she is trying to ease her and her 'brother''s way out of the brewing conflict - or perhaps she is merely struggling to pretend that she is still capable of lighthearted jests, and that there is no pained spasm gripping her throat, and no liquid film dimming her eyes.  
  
'Are you out of your mind?!' Threnn cries, outraged, as she seems to come close to shaking Carver off her. 'I am your bloody superior!'  
  
'I don't care!' Carver yells, his voice ending in a rather embarrassing boyish squeak. 'She is my sister, and I am fu...' He shoots an apologetic glance at Golem and hurries to swallow the rest of the profanity. 'I am tired of people calling her a "creature" or an "abomination"!'  
  
'Which she certainly isn't!' a calmer, more mature male voice cuts in.  
  
Most of the recruits swivel their heads to check who has spoken, and discover that they have been joined by a dark-haired man in a full suit of armour that looks far better made than anything the common soldiers have been able to afford for themselves.  
  
'This woman is a Qunari,' he continues, regarding Golem without fear, but with a certain share of cautiousness. 'Her people are not widely known in Ferelden, but I have read accounts of them, and heard that nobles sometimes use them as mercenaries and bodyguards, especially in Orlais. When properly trained, they can be highly efficient in battle. If an arl or bann has brought her in with his troop, it can actually be a good thing'.  
  
Threnn hesitates, but then, apparently having pegged the man as a noble himself (and thus, a  higher authority, much as she resents it), jerks her head commandingly, silently urging the freckled recruit to step aside from Golem. Even so, she does not look overly convinced.  
  
'What's a merc from Orlais doing all the way in Ferelden?' she asks suspiciously. 'Maybe she's a spy or something!'  
  
Free of the freckled woman's grip and back on her feet, Golem finally finds the strength to speak for herself.  
  
'I am nobody's spy, and nobody's mercenary' she says, quietly but firmly, seeming to grow a fraction of an inch taller with every word. 'And I have definitely never set foot in Orlais. I do not know where I was born, but I was raised here, on this land. Cailan is my king, just as he is your king; and I came to serve him, and Ferelden, because I want to defend my home and my family from the darkspawn. Together with my younger brother'.  
  
She reaches out to pat Carver on the top of his head, while simultaneously pulling him away from Threnn (which leaves him frustrated once again, his outburst of protectiveness forgotten).  
  
This is the most that this odd recruit has spoken since her arrival at Ostagar - and the others' response is to keep gaping at her. The dark-haired newcomer, for all his knowledge of the Qunari, seems especially astounded. After a brief pause, he gives Golem an utterly unexpected bow, and says,  
  
'I have to apologize for what I just said. The words I used to talk about you might as well describe a good mabari hound. And in truth, my books and the Brother who taught me described your kind as mindless beasts, barely able to string two words together. I should be ashamed... Especially since people say the same things so often about my own sister'.  
  
Seeing Carver perk up at his last words, he adds, with an affectionate smile,  
  
'My sister was not borne of my mother and father. But that does not make her any less dear to me. She is still my sister, and if anyone says something foul of her, I'll readily leap to her defense. I have always been the only one allowed to shove at her and pull her hair and throw frogs down the back of her dress and beat her into a pulp during sparring practice'.  
  
Threnn, sensing that the conversation is taking a soft, disgracefully unmilitaristic way, squares her shoulders and barks at Carver,  
  
'All right, chat time's over! You - three circles round the fortress walls for assaulting me! And you...'  
  
Her eyes linger on Golem, still narrowed distrustfully.  
  
'I'll be watching you! If you are really here to serve the king, you'll have to work hard to prove it!'.  
  
'That I will, m'am,' Golem reassures her.  
  
The dark-haired man extends his hand for her to shake.  
  
'I hope you will accept my friendship and allow me to correct my blunder... Not necessarily in that order. I was just here in passing, getting my bearings round the camp after my men got settled in. I'd best be returning to them. Till we meet again...'  
  
He pauses questioningly, and Golem introduces herself, accepting his friendly gesture and gripping him in a handshake that almost lifts him off the ground.  
  
'Ursa Hawke of Lothering'.  
  
'Fergus Cousland of Highever. It will be a pleasure to carve through those darkspawn by your side - and that of your brother'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that the Warden in Ursaverse is going to be my future Queen Tamara Cousland (a.k.a. the Chasind Princess), who is quite lovely but looks nothing like her family members. I headcanon her as a Wilder child that was abandoned for some reason and then found herself in Highever, where she was taken in by the Teyrn's family. Despite not being related to Fergus, Bryce, and Eleanor by blood, she considers herself a Cousland, and is just as heartbroken over Arl Howe's betrayal. This will allow for some symbolic connections between Tamara and Ursa. The Inquisitor, in turn, will be Maaras Adaar (not the Kirkwall Maaras, but another Tal-Vashoth who decided to strike out on his own and chose a name accordingly). Like Ursa, he does not have horns; this has allowed him to pass as a human by wearing full-body armour and a face-concealing helmet as he sold his services as a sword for hire in various taverns. His looks and personality are somewhat based on Teldryn Sero; but that is a story for another time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we fast forward a lot to the time when Ursa has already settled in Kirkwall and has apparently stumbled upon the Black Emporium.

All the companions that Ursa has brought with her have scattered all across the different corners of the murky, high-ceilinged mystery store. Isabela is busy trying on a succession of oversized, outlandishly decorated hats (one even has a row of jingling bells dangling along the hem), all the while blowing teasing kisses at Aveline, who is thoughtfully frowning at an enchanted blade she has picked up. Bethany is stealthily approaching the drowsy mabari hound, apparently with an intention to pet it without waking it up and potentially making it snap her fingers off. Varric is inspecting the twisted pile of desiccated limbs, which is apparently the establishment's owner - you can almost hear the thoughts racing through his head as he figures out what role this grotesque 'Antiquarian' might play in his next book. Anders is crouching in front of the silent, raggedy urchin who serves the ancient merchant, trying to get the child to at least somehow respond to his questions about what sort of master the Antiquarian is, before the limb pile stirs and calls in a wheezing voice for its skin to be dabbed with the moist cloth that the urchin is clutching. Merrill is gasping excitedly over the assortment of fantastical knickknacks and whatnots on display, just about to reach forward with one finger and poke at a coiling plant that has slimy, bloodshot eyes in the place of blossoms - and Fenris, too, was last seen walking down the cramped isle with Tevinter curious, reaching back to get a feel of his greatsword every now and again, as if expecting the statue of a bare-kneed spearman or a stuffed two-headed serpent to come alive at any moment.  
  
Ursa is aware of their presence only somewhere at the back of her mind - they are like shadows, shifting in the background, laughing and bickering, and occasionally causing a burst of rattling clamour (that would be Merrill, most likely - or maybe Aveline, finally getting fed up with Isabela's attempts to distract her). Most of her senses are occupied by staring in the tall mirror, with a jagged frame and a whirlpool of green mist rippling within.  
  
When Ursa first spotted it, she thought it was a functioning Eluvian, and was ready to lift Merrill off the creaking wooden floor in a massive hug, congratulating her on discovering an artifact that might help her with her own research. But as it turns out, there are other magic mirrors in the world apart from fancy elven doorway thingies.  
  
The glassy surface grew warmer when Ursa touched it, tickling her fingertips with a faint sort of rumble that sounded a little bit like a cat's purr. And now, there are at least a dozen ghostly faces, rushing up from the mirror's cloudy depths to stare back at Ursa. To tease her. To beckon.  
  
They are all women's faces; and - as the Antiquarian explained in his grousing comment when Ursa cursed under her breath and staggered away from the mirror after the apparitions first surfaced - any one of them can be hers. All she has to do is choose; and the mirror will magically transform her features as she desires. She can give herself soft pink cheeks and a round chin; she can smooth over the bulging ridges on her forehead, and make the tips of her ears retract. Without the hassle of saving up money to visit a barber or a wig-maker, she can change her coarse white hair into something softer and bouncier: a wispy cloud of tiny red curls, or long flowing golden locks like on tinted glass depictions of Andraste. She can colour her eyes blue or brown or green. She can finally pass for a human without having to wear a helmet all the time.  
  
An Orlesian lay sister, cloistered in the Chantry back home in Lothering, once told Ursa that she is a beautiful creation of the Maker precisely the way she is, no matter what the disdainful humans might say. But that was long ago; Lothering is gone now, swallowed up by the Blight - and for all Ursa knows, that little sister may well be gone too. Whereas she lives on.  
  
She lives on - having to deal with an uncle who, during their very first meeting, scoffed at Mother and told her to 'stop playing poor refugee when you have enough money to hire a Qunari mercenary!' and who still refuses to treat Ursa as part of the family, occasionally stunning her with friendly talk like 'There's not enough food to make a supper helping for you; go find something in the gutter - don't you creatures have sturdier stomachs than people?'. She lives on - hearing voices behind her back, not even bothering to make their hissing quiet enough for her not to hear them; gossiping about how she must be 'in league with them at the compound'. She lives on - walking through the docks with a tight knot in her stomach, as the people who share her blood, who might have taught her who she is and where she came from, snarl and spit at the ground at her feet, and call her 'bas' - which apparently means 'thing' in their language... A language that she is learning not from them, but from Fenris, as they would not give her the time of day, with their Arishok declaring that, if it were not for the 'different purpose' of his languishing in Kirkwall, he would have cut her down for being Tal-Vashosh. She lives on - caught in between humans who fear her, and Qunari who consider her unworthy; lost in an oppressive city where her only friends are a blood mage pariah, a possessed Grey Warden, an exasperated guardswoman, a pirate without a ship, a dwarf without a beard, and a Tevinter runaway.  
  
Perhaps, if she used the mirror, if she became someone more... normal, life would be easier - even if just a tiny bit? Granted, a lot of people already know that Ursa Hawke is a big, lumbering Qunari brute with greyish-brown skin and blazing lilac eyes - but not all of them. Mother has an audience with the viscount soon; wouldn't it be better for House Amell's tarnished reputation if she walked among all those nobles accompanied by two pretty, rosy human daughters? Wouldn't it be better if..?  
  
'Hawke?'  
  
Fenris has crept up on her seemingly from nowhere, and she becomes aware of his presence only when his spiky metal gauntlet clasps around the mirror's frame. Starting a little, Ursa titles her head to look at him. He does not hold her gaze for long - he is never able to, and every time he has to look away, her heart jolts in her chest, for she has an inkling this might be his former slave's habits stirring within him (not that she has been a slave herself, but she has had to deal with an occasional exclamation like 'Don't you dare gape at me, you filth!').  
  
Having cast his eyes down (again), Fenris lets out a short, curt phrase,  
  
'Don't'.  
  
Startled, Ursa glances silently at the mirror and then back at her elven companion again - while in her mind, her previous chain of thought continues.  
  
'Dammit, I am such a weakling,' she mutters. 'You have lived through torture - and here I am, wallowing in "Bohoo, nobody likes my face"! Well, if I go around and shove my face into theirs every time I save their sorry arses, the joke will be on them! I may not be a beautiful creation of the Maker - but that little Chantry bird also talked about me needing to be strong to let the people see who I really am. And changing my face to fit in wouldn't be a sign of strength, would it? Like I need rosy cheeks anyway! Let Bethany have rosy cheeks - that's what sweet baby sisters are for! Me, I have two pretty sturdy sword arms, and lots of bandit-killing zeal! You have put me to shame, Fenris - thanks for that!'.  
  
Bolstered by her own tirade, she marches off to the other corner of the shadowy store, to see if she can bargain for some better-fitting armour. Fenris, in the meanwhile, is left to stare at her back, eyebrows still knitted. Now it is his time to be startled.  
  
'I didn't mean it this way,' he says under his breath, not really aiming to be audible. 'I meant that your current face... that it is rather.... Ah, who cares'.


End file.
